


Cold Hands and a Warm Heart

by rangerhitomi



Series: radical dreamers [4]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Gen, M/M, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 09:20:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3762733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rangerhitomi/pseuds/rangerhitomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Durbe braves a horrible storm to come visit Nasch and Nasch is really mad at him for that, but mostly he realizes that he feels something for Durbe, and he's sure Durbe doesn't feel quite the same way about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Hands and a Warm Heart

Every year, during the rainy season, it storms; the sea crashes onto the islands and floods the fields, the cold wind uproots gardens and tears the roofing from houses, lightning streaks across the sky as thunder causes the very ground to shake.

The king and queen open the palace as a refuge for any of their people who need it. Hundreds of villagers flood in each time and crowd every inch of the palace, but the royal family does what it can to make them comfortable until the storm passes.

Prince Nasch and Princess Merag walk through the crowded halls, offering blankets and tea and bread to anyone who looks cold, or hungry.

There’s a soft clink of metal – late in the evening, Nasch thinks, because it’s so dark outside he can’t even see the rain beyond the distorted windows – as a sopping wet knight in armor makes his way down the hall, apologizing to everyone for dripping water on them.

_Durbe…?_

Nasch walks quickly but carefully through the people. When the knight sees him, he smiles sheepishly.

“Ah, hello my friend…”

“When did you get here?” Nasch folds his arms. “It’s been raining for—oh my gods, Durbe, you didn’t just—“

Durbe coughs a little, and wipes a little bit of water from his armor. It drips on a little girl who is sitting near his feet.

“I’m sorry…” Durbe tries to kneel next to her but more water pours from the inside of his armor. “Oh, dear.”

Nasch could laugh, but the little girl looks indignant, so he points Durbe down the hall instead. “I have some dry clothes in my room you could wear.”

Durbe sloshes away, face red and armor clinking, and Nasch kneels next to the girl and offers her a blanket. She goes on a tirade about how the _smelly knight got my new dress all wet and it’s_ freezing _in the palace halls and the floor is uncomfortable_ and Nasch nods solemnly, interjecting “mhms” and “yeahs” at proper intervals, but now that he thinks about it… Durbe had been out traveling in the storm. Alone. On the back of a winged horse, through torrents of rain and wind gusts strong enough to knock over the stable walls, flying close to the lightning and thunder and black clouds.

 _That moron,_ he almost says out loud, and it probably looks like he’s scowling at the little girl because she’s looking at him with wide eyes. He suspects she’s upset, because she’s stopped talking and looks like she wants to cry.

_Gods, not again._

He looks around for Merag, because she’s the one who’s good with kids. She is, of course, very busy making a crown of flowers with a gaggle of children, so he flounders inwardly for a second before blurting out, “do you want to hear a story?”

Children always do, and before too long, there was a small crowd of them surrounding Nasch as he theatrically recounted a ridiculous story Durbe had once told him about legless creatures called “ _seperters_ ” that were twenty feet long and as big around as a grown man. The kids are entranced by the tale, and they scream at all the right places (a clap of thunder emphasizes the most dramatic moment, where the hero has to wrestle the _serperter_ to position himself directly over its neck) and cheer when the hero slays the monster and they all talk excitedly about it when Nasch finishes.

“You left out the part where I barely managed to avoid being poisoned by the small _serpiente_ ,” says an amused voice behind him.

Nasch frowns before turning around. “How long have you been standing there?”

Durbe’s hugging his arms to his chest. The silks always look odd on him – too formal for a man accustomed to exploration, too revealing of his curved calves and toned arms. He’s never comfortable in these clothes. _I feel vulnerable_ , he explained once, but his exposed skin and muscles never seemed to be a problem with the tavern maids, or so Nasch hears from some of the other soldiers. Durbe's never brought it up.

(Nasch shoves down a twinge of irritation and turns to walk away. Durbe follows.)

“The part where the villagers asked me to slay the _serpiente_ ,” Durbe corrects him, placing special emphasis on the pronunciation, “not the _serperter_ , which isn’t a word in any language I’ve ever heard.”

“Still going on about how you singlehandedly slayed one of these… _serpentes_ , Durbe?” Nasch lifts an eyebrow and turns around. Durbe is still holding his arms against his chest. “I don’t think they really exist.”

“I am wounded that you would doubt my honesty, my friend,” Durbe says lightly, rubbing a finger under his nose. “Someday, I would like to take you to my homeland and show you all of the terrible creatures you don’t believe exist. Don’t you worry, though: I will protect you from any manner of dangerous creature.”

“Even if they do,” Nasch says dismissively, ignoring the joking comment against Nasch’s bravery, “I can’t imagine what kind of person would willingly choose to live in a place like that.”

Durbe laughs weakly and looks away. “At least it’s always warm there,” he mutters, and Nasch suddenly realizes why Durbe is hugging himself. The hallways are drafty, Durbe’s hair is wet, his clothes are thin, and his nose is a bit red.

“Are you cold?”

“Freezing,” Durbe admits, “but I don’t want to deprive any of our—your people from being comfortable, so please do not waste a blanket on me.”

The slip is not lost on Nasch, and it is perhaps this veiled admission that Durbe considers this kingdom and its people _his_ , as if he had lived here his whole life, that soften Nasch’s feelings toward the knight at that moment. He places a hand on Durbe’s shoulder. His skin is cold. “I’m afraid all the blankets in the guest room that you usually sleep in are being used out here,” he murmurs, leading Durbe through the maze of people in the hall, “but there are still a couple of sheets on my bed that you can—“

“I couldn’t,” Durbe blurts out loudly, and people stare.

Nasch sighs, and prods Durbe toward his room anyway. “You flew all the way out here in the middle of the worst storm of this year, which was stupid, by the way.”

Durbe flinches. “I—“

“I don’t want to hear your excuses,” Nasch says, stopping in front of his door, “only that you swear you will not do something like that again. You are overly reckless, wrestling _serpentes_ in the jungle and—”

“ _Serpientes,”_ Durbe supplies dully, and Nasch opens the door and gives him a _look_.

“Swear it, Durbe. Stop putting yourself in danger for no reason.”

He waits until Durbe assents – reluctantly – before he pushes Durbe into the room. He follows, and shuts the door behind them. Wind and rain pound loudly at the windows. That’s fine with Nasch; there will be less chance of being overheard from inside the room with all the noise.

Durbe tightens his grip on his arms. “Nasch,” he begins, and Nasch knows it’s serious if Durbe uses his name instead of a title or his colloquial _my friend._

“Ever since we first met, I’ve looked up to you,” Nasch interrupts in a rush, and Durbe’s face is red again. “I’ve admired your bravery and your skills and…” He trails off and has to look at the floor instead of at Durbe’s tired face. “I didn’t know you were coming. You could have died and I never would have known what happened to you. I would have assumed… you just weren’t coming back.”

There’s a short pause, long enough for Nasch to try to think of something else to say, but his mind is blank.

“I think I—“ he starts to blurt out, but Durbe cuts him off, and it’s probably for the best, because now it’s Nasch’s turn to be embarrassed as he thinks about the words he almost says.

“I would never just stop coming without sending you a letter, Nasch.” Durbe’s voice is clipped, insulted. “I don’t think so little of you that I would choose to ignore you for the rest of my life.” He reaches out his hand and takes Nasch by the wrist. It isn’t a rough grip; it’s gentle.

His hand is also very cold. Nasch tells him so, and Durbe laughs softly.

“Then will you warm them for me?”

It’s forward, too forward, and inappropriate of a knight to ask of his prince – _not_ his _prince,_ Nasch reminds himself, _I’m just a prince to him_ – but all the same, maybe Durbe shouldn’t have asked such a thing from anyone who wasn’t a pretty tavern girl, one of the girls who (Nasch imagines) likes to sit on Durbe’s lap while he’s drinking and engages him in a full-body dance when Durbe’s had one too many ales – but Nasch wraps his free hand around Durbe’s anyway and stares intently at Durbe’s shoulder.

He doesn’t know what to do. His legs move on their own, close the gap so both the knight and the prince are standing with hands pressed between their chests. He looks up into Durbe’s face, and Durbe is staring back at him with furrowed eyebrows and a mouth pressed into a thin line. It’s not an angry look, or one of annoyance – it’s pensive, conflicted. And Nasch has to weigh his choices for a second that feels like an hour.

Durbe is three years Nasch’s senior. When they were younger, Nasch considered Durbe like an older brother, someone who would look out for him and teach him. Durbe had said as much himself: _You and Merag are like the little brother and sister I never had._

But Durbe is… more than that, isn’t he? He’s Nasch’s mentor. His best friend. And – it’s Nasch’s turn to be embarrassed – Durbe had turned into a striking knight; his windswept hair falls into his gentle eyes, he has a strong body, a kind voice, he’s always been patient and Nasch wonders if—

A clap of thunder that rattles the room shakes Nasch out of his thoughts and gives him an opening to pull his hands away.

He swallows.

 _Gods, you’re embarrassing,_ he chides himself.

“Well,” he says in what he hopes is a casual voice, “you had a long journey, so I’m sure you’re tired. Is Mahha okay in the stables?”

“Mahha will be fine,” Durbe says, and he steps forward.

Nasch finds himself in a tight embrace, Durbe’s hand squeezing the back of his shirt, and when he’s finally not too stunned to move his hands toward Durbe’s waist, Durbe pulls away and claps a hand on Nasch’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry I worried you.” Durbe rubs his nose again, sniffs softly. “In my defense, I didn’t know the gods themselves would stir up the seas like this when I set off.”

“Just… stay safe, Durbe.” Nasch turns and exhales slowly. He starts for the door, and he’s reaching for the handle when Durbe murmurs his name.

Nasch pauses. “What?”

“You’re still young,” Durbe muses, half to himself, “but someday, you’ll make a wonderful king, and I would be honored to serve you to the ends of the earth.”

It’s as close to a declaration of loyalty as Nasch has ever gotten from the knight. In a way, it was almost as though Durbe had vowed never to leave. _I will make these islands my home. You will be my king, my friend, and my loyalties will lie with you._ They’re words Nasch has always wanted Durbe to say, a promise Durbe had never been willing to make.

Nasch bites his lip, closes his eyes, and opens the door. He has to get back to his duties, Durbe needs rest, and Merag will doubtless wonder where he ran off to. He shouldn’t dwell on this any longer.

“When the storm stops,” he says casually, “I’d like you to help me with my sword form. I’m struggling with a few of them. Would that be fine?”

Durbe doesn’t seem off put by the change in conversation. Instead, his lips quirk upward in a playful smile. “I’ll train you until you’re able to hold me off,” he replies. “I hope you’re ready for a long day of training, my friend.”

Nasch laughs a little. He can’t help it. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to have a hot breakfast waiting for us when we’re finished. The cooks should be up by then.”

He hears Durbe laugh in reply before he shuts the door, and he allows himself a smile before returning to his people.


End file.
